


Where the Love Light Gleams

by lodgedinmythoughts



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky the Matchmaker, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Christmas, Dual POV, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff and mild angst, Friends to Lovers, Jealous Steve Rogers, Journals, Mutual Pining, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, References to Peggy, Secret Santa, Sketches, Steve Rogers in love, Steve stays in the present
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:56:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21773311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lodgedinmythoughts/pseuds/lodgedinmythoughts
Summary: Unbeknownst to each other, you and Steve share a matching secret close to your hearts, and that's where you both intend to keep it. But the holiday season has arrived with all its hope for new beginnings, bringing with it more gifts and good tidings than two lonely hearts could've dared to dream.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 30
Kudos: 73





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Instead of working on On the Equinox, I did this. 👀 This won't be that long, under ten chapters. The title's pulled from "I'll Be Home for Christmas" (the version I listened to on repeat is by [Cam](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hRap7PvNqNg). It tugs at my heartstrings so and inspired this fic).
> 
> ❤️ Happy holidays 💚

“What’re you writing?”

You looked up from your journal to find the warm blue eyes of Steve shining back at you in the firelight.

He stood over you, stance casual and eyes twinkling with something close to mischief. He’d appeared out of nowhere as he was highly capable of doing, much to your frequent chagrin, or you’d simply been too absorbed in your writing to notice his approach. A smile tugged at his lips as though he found secret amusement in your thoughtful wanderings.

“Nothing,” you said, letting gravity take its course as the worn spine brought the pages fluttering back down until the journal flapped shut.

“Can you even see with the light?” He jerked his head at the campfire nearby.

You nodded, becoming acutely aware of how he hovered right over where you were comfortably perched on a log. “The fire’s bright enough. It’s not a problem.”

He nodded gently, and for all his ease, you got the vague impression that he was stalling. For what exactly was unclear.

The others were grouped around the fire, chatting and laughing quietly as the wispy tendrils of smoke aimed harmlessly for the starry night sky. It was a cold night in December, just days out from Christmas, and Tony and Pepper had invited everyone to stay the night at their cabin. For old times’ sake, they’d said. It didn’t matter that the team had seldom, if never, gathered in such a manner before. All that mattered was that after years of loss and years of pain that seemed to have no end, everyone was together again.

Not everyone had made it to the cabin, like Clint who was off with his own family and Vision and Wanda who were on a little getaway of their own. Likewise, Bruce was taking a sabbatical and Thor had flown back off into space after the defeat of Thanos.

The world was rebuilding. People learned how to smile again, to live. They found old loves, or new loves, and waded through the aftermath together. Some were still as lonely as before, and, silently, fervently, you sent a message of hope to drift alongside the night breeze that they might soon find peace.

Steve stuck his hands in his coat pockets and propped one boot up on the log beside your hip. The nonchalant placement somehow had you feeling utterly and delightfully trapped, though he had no way of knowing that.

He gazed out at the water. “Wish every night could be like this,” he said, sounding contemplative.

“Freezing?”

“Calm.” His gaze turned back to you, so sincere and concerned it made your heart skip a beat. “You cold?”

“Well, it is December in New York,” you said with a little smile, though the fire and blanket wrapped around your shoulders did a good job of warding off the cold.

“Well, why don’t you head inside if you’re cold? Or warm up by the fire?” he asked, gesturing behind him.

You shrugged. “Everyone else is out here. And I was about to head closer to the fire. I was just finishing up in here.” You gestured with the journal.

“You ever going to tell me what you’re always scribbling away in there?”

“Mm, don’t think so. Only way you’ll be finding out is if I’m dead and gone and six feet under.”

“Well, this took a dark turn I wasn’t expecting.” You shared a quiet laugh. He wet his lips. “Seriously, though, is it that bad?”

You pretended to think it over. “Depends on your definition of bad.”

“Self-incriminating maybe? You commit a crime everyone else here doesn’t know about? On the run from the law maybe? You know we’ve got some experience with that, right? If you don’t remember, I could give you some quick pointers on how to lay low.”

You snorted softly. “Yup, you got me. Too bad you asked, though, ’cause now you’re complicit in my escape. Unless you want to be a fugitive again, I suggest you cease this line of questioning immediately.”

He raised his brows in sarcasm. “I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. And by the way, you also ever going to clue me in on who you got for Secret Santa?”

You laughed. “Oh, boy. I don’t know why you bother, Steve. You know I’m not going to tell you.”

“Oh, come on, why not?” His boyishly charming smile made your belly go aflutter. “Only reason you wouldn’t tell me is ’cause you got me. Is it me?”

“It’s not… _not_ not you.”

He had to think about it. “So…you did get me?”

“You’ll just have to find out along with everyone else.” At the exaggerated disappointed look on his face, you gave him one right back before finally capitulating. “I didn’t get you, Steve.”

“You promise?”

“You know, I don’t really believe you’d actually want to know even if I did get you. Why would you?”

He nodded in defeat. “All right. Fair enough.”

“So who did _you_ get?”

“Oh, no. You’re not turning this around on me.”

“Oh, no, you don’t get to do that, either. All’s fair in love and war.”

In an instant, all hints of playfulness had vanished and he pinned you with a dark, direct gaze, his voice dropping an octave. “So is this love, then, or is it war?”

Your heart stopped and your stomach plummeted straight to the ground, your blood running cold. Did he know of your feelings? You inwardly panicked, wishing for a hole in the ground to appear and swallow you whole.

Before you could visibly fumble for an answer, a sly smile curved at his lips and he nudged your foot with his. “’Cause if it’s war, don’t think for a second I won’t win.”

You let out a shaky internal sigh of relief and relaxed, but only marginally. “When’d you get so cocky?”

“Not cocky. Just honest.”

Good god. You adored him for his modesty and humility among many other things, but goodness, did he wear the look of a man in complete and utter possession of himself so well.

“You know, there are other methods to winning a war. It’s not always about sheer brute strength,” you said.

“You mean like war tactics?” There was that half-smile again that hovered right at the edge of smug.

Damn it. He was also a skilled tactician. He had you there.

“No, I mean like things of a more subtle nature,” you said with more confidence than you felt.

He arched an eyebrow. “Such as?”

“The art of seduction, of course.”

He peered down at you with an odd look in his eye. “And you have experience with this…method.”

“Well, yeah,” you said matter-of-factly. “I mean, I’m not exactly anyone’s first pick, but you know we’ve had those missions where one of us had to serve as the distraction.”

“What?”

“What?”

“What do you mean you’re…how could you…” He abruptly cut himself off, seeming terribly offended. He looked away and shook his head. “Never mind.”

You looked on in bemusement. “What is it? What did I say?”

“Nothing. I was…never mind.”

“Oookay.”

“So you finished up here, then?” He nodded toward the journal safely sat atop your lap, remnants of that strange disturbance still swirling behind his eyes.

You glanced down at the journal, unsure how to answer. “Sure, I guess.”

Your attention was brought back up when an open hand appeared in your vision. Steve stood waiting for you with his hand out, looking like he had all the time in the world.

Hesitantly, but not too hesitantly so as not to give away the rabbiting of your heart, you took his hand, privately basking in the slight roughness of his palm against yours, of its warmth and size and indisputable promise of safety and security and strength and all the other things you’d long associated with Steve.

He effortlessly tugged you up on your feet and readjusted the blanket when it threatened to slip from your shoulders. “Well, you weren’t lying,” he said. “You really are cold. Your hand is freezing. Why were you sitting away from everyone else?”

He took your other hand and rubbed both hands between his until they were warm to his satisfaction and pulled you toward the rest of the group, completely oblivious to the effect he had on you.

“Hand cramped yet?” Sam asked as Steve guided you to a log. “You’ve been glued to that thing all night.”

“Leave her alone, Sam,” Natasha said. “You might remember we did just survive an ordeal of literal universal proportions. It’s enough to mess even the most stable person up.”

“Don’t have to tell me that,” he countered. His gaze moved back to yours, understanding in his eyes. His tone turned reflective. “Trust me, I’m all for lettin’ things out any way we can as long as it’s not hurting anyone. Used to tell the folks down at the VA that, too. Me and Bucky just spent five years as dust. Five years. We lost five years. Five years to y’all, five seconds to us. But we’re back now and we got to make the most of it.” Beside him, Bucky remained ever staid and silent, his gaze directed at the flames.

“Yup, exactly why we invited you all here tonight,” Tony casually chimed in from where he stood behind Pepper who sat on one of the logs. Morgan, meanwhile, stood roasting marshmallows by the fire. “Family’s the most important thing and if it wasn’t true before, it’s true now. Even if that family is one that still doesn’t know not to put coffee grounds in the garbage disposal.”

Sam immediately bristled, voice hushed. “I told you, Tony, that wasn’t me—”

“And I keep telling _you_ guys—” Tony retorted and they carried on with their quiet bickering.

“Oh, Tony, always so heartfelt,” Natasha said with her trademark sarcasm, but her tone belied the genuine emotion you could sense underneath.

“Anyway,” you said, “you’re right about one thing. Writing helps me get it all out. It’s what journals are for, isn’t it?”

Natasha nodded. “I get it. I’ve been trying to get into it, too.”

“Kind of like how Steve’s head’s always buried in that sketchbook of his,” said Bucky, sounding casually disinterested. “There’s a sight I haven’t seen in a while. Right, Steve?” As he spoke, he looked to where Steve popped open another drink across the fire, his expression giving nothing away. Steve stared back.

“Right,” Steve said flatly.

Bucky gave a near imperceptible snort and shifted his gaze away, saying nothing else.

Everyone carried on as usual. Tony eventually headed inside to tuck Morgan in and Pepper strummed away at the guitar she’d taken out. It was something she’d recently picked up, and her sheer determination made up for her present lack of skill. Sam and Natasha were in the middle of a debate about the pros and cons of breakfast for dinner and vice versa, while Steve retreated to the water’s edge for a short time before resettling at the other side of the fire.

You were half-listening in on Sam and Natasha’s argument when Bucky plopped right next to you and held out a rod with a jumbo marshmallow speared at the end.

“S’more?” he asked.

You smiled affably and took the rod. “Don’t mind if I do.”

“So what are you really writing about in that journal?” he asked as you roasted marshmallows side by side. When you faced him, all he gave was a brief sidelong smile.

“What do you mean?” you said. “It’s like I said. I write for the same reason anyone would. To get all my thoughts out.”

Why was no one seeming to grasp that? Of all people to push, Bucky was the one you would’ve least expected it from. He was taciturn and intensely private, keeping mostly to himself. You’d gotten to know each other and clicked in a way that seldom happened with others, but you understood it’d take a lot more to truly know the man.

“I didn’t ask for the reason. I asked what you write,” he said, eyes never leaving his task.

You were sure you were gaping at him. You had no idea how to respond to his sudden interest in something so personal.

Then he chuckled. “Relax. I’m teasing. What’s yours is yours. I have no intention of prying into your personal thoughts. Besides,” he said as though he was already growing bored of the topic, “I already got my answer.”

You were still speechless. Doubly so when he unexpectedly reached out with his thumb to brush an errant piece of fluff from your cheek, his touch lingering.

He regarded you a moment longer, something like a smile hinting at his lips, before breaking eye contact and dutifully directing his attention back to his marshmallow.

Of their own accord, your eyes kept floating back to Steve, who sat on the other side of the fire with an unmistakably dour look on his face. You were of the mind to go over to him like he’d done to you, but then Bucky was supplying you with the graham crackers and chocolate and you were plied with the mechanical, enjoyable task of assembling s’mores.

Your mind, however, still drifted back to the man sitting a fire away. The look on his face reminded you of how he got whenever he sketched away in his pad, though the present look on his face was far more severe.

You liked to watch him whenever he took to drawing whatever it was he drew in that sketchpad of his. He always looked so focused and in the zone. Sometimes the tip of his tongue poked out between his lips when he was in the midst of fierce concentration, making you think impure thoughts about his mouth in general. You were grateful he never thought to tilt his gaze up, for if he did, all he’d surely find was an idiotic look of tenderness and amusement etched across your face.

He was always so attentive and single-minded, and it worked so well on him. You’d always admired and respected him deeply and were proud to call him a friend. Even if nothing could realistically happen between the two of you, at least you had that.

As was wont to happen, your thoughts drifted back to the moment of his return after he’d placed the stones back.

He’d popped back up through the quantum machine after five seconds as planned, looking the same as ever, save for the untold story in his eyes that you could only describe as him being at peace, as though he’d found acceptance in something. Closure.

And instantly, you knew what he’d done.

The sharp pang that sliced through your heart every time you thought of Peggy Carter and who she was to him was duller at that moment, giving way to a lighter, joyfully liberating sensation that planted itself deep to blossom all throughout, like an enormous pressure had been eased off your chest.

Because if he’d gone to see her and still came back radiating that contentment, that calm, like a tremendous weight had been lifted from his own shoulders…

It was because at last, he was free.

And while you were still selfish enough to consider him free for your own hopeless and one-sided feelings, what had your throat closing in on itself and your heart soaring was the staggering emotion of seeing him freed from the clawing prison of the past. Of his past. He was back, he was safe, and at last, he was free.

Your heart ached when you realized the very real possibility that he might’ve chosen to stay in the past, leaving everyone—leaving you—behind. But to disappear without a single word and never come back, or only to come back when the entirety of his years had already been lived out in another world, simply wasn’t something he would do.

…Was it?

If nothing else, you thought you could be sure of that.

In the end, it didn’t matter. He’d come back, looking distinctly lighter than you’d ever seen him, and inwardly, you rejoiced.

Even if he could never be yours, you still had him there with you, safe and sound, and that was enough. It had to be. Even if it made your heart ache just to look at him and see him smile the smile that was uniquely him, wondering what it might feel like to have that smile aimed at you and hold more than just friendship.

So you committed your thoughts to paper when the mood struck. It was safest that way. Easier. And after all that had happened, you could no longer take easy for granted.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve watched from across the fire as you and Bucky chatted, a dark expression taking over his face.

You were always so understanding and patient when it came to Bucky, and while it touched at something deep within him more than he could say that you cared about his oldest friend, he also couldn’t stop the pangs of jealousy whenever he thought about the way you so effortlessly gave Bucky your complete attention.

It was wholly irrational given that was what people normally did when they interacted, but coming from you it seemed extra special, and you were always considerate of other people anyway. He’d always loved that about you, and he was overcome with an intense, arguably uncharacteristic desire to impart a lesson of a more physical, perhaps violent nature to others when you didn’t get that same consideration in return.

In a world so rife with darkness, he needed to hold on to that faith in people, the belief that there was more good in the world than he knew. You gave him that faith.

His mood took an even darker turn when he watched the way Bucky reached out to swipe at something on your cheek. He doubted there was even anything there to brush away.

He gritted his teeth. What was Bucky playing at?

The rational, civilized part of him knew he couldn’t do anything about it if it turned out his friend did, in fact, have his eye on you, but a deeper, more primitive part wanted to march right over there and pry Bucky’s hands from you before situating himself right in between the two of you, or better yet, hauling you inside to prove who you really belonged to. And if it all came to blows, he could take Bucky, no problem. It wasn’t like they’d never gotten into it before.

No.

Steve mentally shook himself free from the red haze that had fallen over his vision. What on earth had gotten into him? Was he so affected by the sight of Bucky so close to you that he daydreamed about fighting his oldest friend over you? Maybe the small distance between you was better not just for everyone else but for his own mental and emotional wellbeing.

But it was too late. You were far past under his skin, already taking root beneath his chest in a spot you’d carved out for yourself without so much as lifting a finger. You filtered through his veins like a second lifeblood. You’d taken over his mind, body, and soul, possessing him so completely he was amazed he’d ever thought he understood what love was.

His grim mood lessened when he thought of how you’d looked earlier as you scribbled away in your journal. You were off on your own, not too far from the others but far enough that no one would be able to catch a glimpse of the words on the page.

Privately, he took in your delicately parted lips that formed into a soft pout and the way your gaze roved oh, so studiously over the mysterious words. You always looked so serious when you got lost in the world of your own making, so overly pensive and brooding that it made him want to laugh and pull you over to him in a sweet embrace to shake the somberness away. He would do anything to make that smile appear on your lips, and try not to pretend it was a smile meant for him and him alone.

Your single-minded focus whenever you wrote tugged at his heart, made it go soft and endeared you to him all over again. Watching you earlier in the night, he had the sudden notion that he should walk right over to you and pluck you right up from your seat, journal be damned, and take your face in his hands and cover your lips with his. Or he could bend at the waist and plant his hands on either side of you on the log, no doubt startling you, and corral you into leaning back until his body covered yours and your eyes went wide with shock that would easily give way to desire to match that in his own. It nearly knocked him off his feet, the urge was so strong.

He so loved the picture you painted when you got swept up in reverie, loved it even more for the fact that you seemed completely unaware of it every time you were. He loved the dip that would always form between your brows and found fascination in the way your expression faded from earnest to wistful. He always wondered what you dreamed about when you got that faraway look in your eyes. If he were a masochistic man—and he often was when it came to you—he could almost pretend it was him you thought of.

When he came back from the quantum realm, the first thing his eyes had sought out was you. You were off to the side behind Bucky and he could see the worry on your face gradually ebbing away, like you were finally able to expel an enormous breath of relief that he was back. The thought warmed him.

He met your eye, and an inexplicable sense of peace washed over him.

It would all be okay.

He’d gone back to see Peggy. He knocked on her door, breath hitching in his throat at the sight of her young and healthy when he knew what she would grow into, and when she’d already been gone seven years in his present.

He wasn’t prepared for the profound emotion of seeing her again, and from her reaction it was clear that neither was she, but it was his fault for suddenly reappearing out of nowhere as though risen from the dead. To her, he had been.

She stepped back in sheer disbelief and shut the door in his face so swiftly it took him a moment to process it. He remained on her doorstep, unsure what to do but knowing he had to close that chapter of his life once and for all now that he had the chance and he felt truly ready.

After a minute, or perhaps an hour, the door inched open and Peggy regarded him on the other side with wide shining eyes, chest heaving with every breath. She thought he must’ve been a ghost, but then with a smile of tenderhearted sadness he simply said, “Hi, Peggy,” and said he had much to tell her, and he somehow found the door slowly swinging open as a wordless acceptance of his entrance.

It wasn’t until they ended up in the small entryway that she lost all semblance of control and threw herself at him in an airtight embrace as though to make sure it was him, as though she would never fully believe he was real and standing in front of her again. As he hugged her back, he understood very distinctly that the wild assortment of emotions closing up his throat didn’t include the bittersweet pain of reuniting with a long lost love. Instead, it was a feeling of stark fondness, like seeing an old friend, and he could sense the same in her, too.

In the kitchen, they talked. She was overflowing with questions and he answered them. He told her about all that had happened after he crashed the plane in the ice, about HYDRA’s infiltration of S.H.I.E.L.D. and all the other things he believed relevant to her position, and left out the parts of his story he felt might unjustly influence her or the world’s path.

She told him about the man she was seeing. He sounded like a good man, one who would treat her right. And judging by the soft look in her eye that could only come from someone in love—and he liked to think he knew a little something about that, hopeless fool he was—he knew she would be okay. She would always be okay because she was Peggy Carter and she was made of fiercer stuff than most people he knew.

She then asked about his life in the future—his present—and he told her. He told her about the technological marvels that would surely make Howard sing with delight, the people he’d met along the way and come to respect and treasure more than he’d thought would be possible after waking from the ice.

Then she asked the dreaded question.

Was there anyone special in his life?

He played coy at first, stating the whole team was special if she really wanted to know, but at her playfully lowered brow, he found himself confessing more than he wished to.

He told her about you, how you met, the silly things you said that made him laugh, and whether by woman’s intuition or by the unspoken feelings no doubt written all over his face, she smiled knowingly. And said, “I’m glad for you, Steve.”

There was no pain in seeing her in her young age or in talking to her, not anymore, not when he knew she would go on to see a long, fulfilling life. Not when he had you.

Had.

He wanted to laugh at himself. He had you in one sense, he supposed. A teammate, a friend, someone with whom he felt safe to confide in and reveal his deepest thoughts, though the very innermost of them would never be revealed to you. They couldn’t, not if he wanted to preserve what you already had. Because if you didn’t feel the same way—and he thought that very likely—he could lose you. And after having so much taken away from him, and above all else, he couldn’t bear losing you, too.

So he kept his true feelings close to his chest and occupied himself with his sketchbook much the same way you did with your journal, resigning himself to nothing but your friendship and reminding himself that it was better than nothing.

Which meant he had to endure it in painful silence when other men flirted with you, which, much to his vexation, was often. It ate away at him that the day would inevitably come where you’d find someone—your someone—and he’d be able to do nothing but stand by and watch. You liked to say it was never going to happen, that you doubted there was anyone out there for you, but he knew better.

He wanted to be the one you unloaded your worries on, the one you shared your joy with, the one to ease your fears and keep you safe. The one you made a life with. He wanted to be your someone. But he treasured you too much to risk losing you by revealing those deepest wants that consumed him both in waking hours and when his eyes closed at night.

It was self-preservation. At once selfless and selfish. He was used to that. Even when he put himself last, he still thought of himself in a way. It wouldn’t be anything new to him now.


	3. Chapter 3

“I’m heading back inside. Want to join?” asked Bucky.

You brushed the crumbs from your hands and glanced up to find him waiting patiently for an answer. Natasha and Sam were still by the fire, and Pepper had gone inside some time ago. You’d enjoyed your s’mores, even offering some to Steve, but he’d only refused with a small shake of the head.

“Sure,” you said, getting up and hugging the blanket closer to your body.

“If you were cold, all you had to do was say so.” Bucky smiled faintly and threw an arm around your shoulder, ready to lead you inside.

You threw a quick glance at Steve who was still in his spot from before with that same surly look on his face. “Want to come in, Steve?”

Bucky had also paused in his steps to wait for Steve’s response. “Yeah, you coming, Steve?”

Steve’s eyes flickered over to Bucky, his stare addressing something you assumed only they were privy to. “No, I’ll be in later.”

Bucky shrugged, arm still around your shoulder. “Suit yourself.” He turned and together you resumed the short distance to the house.

“Aren’t you sleeping outside?” you asked Bucky.

“I am. Just wanted to get fully warmed up before I park it out here for this lonely winter’s eve,” he answered casually.

“You know, you could always join the rest of us inside. There’s plenty of room. You don’t have to freeze your butt off outside for no reason.”

“Nah. I made a habit of sleeping under the stars when I was in Wakanda. Guess I’m not ready to give it up just yet.”

Your expression softened and you nudged him gently and good-naturedly with your elbow.

Inside, you luxuriated in a hot shower and changed into your pajamas, glad to be rid of the distinct stench campfires always left behind. You and Natasha were to share the guest bedroom while Steve and Sam were to take the living room. Bucky had opted to pitch a tent for himself outside.

When you emerged from the guest bathroom, Natasha still hadn’t made it inside. You swung the door open to exit the bedroom and stopped short when you came face to face with Bucky, who had his hand raised like he’d been about to knock.

“Oh. Bucky.”

“Just stopped by to say goodnight,” he said.

Your brows pinched together in confusion. You craned your neck to look down the hall to where the living room was partly visible at the other end. Steve was busy setting up his pillows on one end of the couch, almost seeming a little too busy, like he’d been watching the two of you but didn’t want to get caught.

“Um…goodnight?” Your tone held as much confusion as you felt. Bucky wasn’t exactly the type to go out of his way to wish you goodnight.

“Can’t a guy tell a beautiful girl goodnight once in a while?” What ticked at the corner of his mouth was more of a smirk than a smile.

“Okay, what’s going on, Bucky?” It was clear he was up to something, but as to what, you didn’t have a clue.

“I’m trying to work on being a little more sociable. Like I said, just wanted to say goodnight. So, goodnight.” He leaned in to press a soft kiss to your cheek, stubble grazing your skin. His face was still close to yours when he asked quietly, “Make a Christmas wish yet?”

He pulled back, gifted you with a flirty wink you had no idea what to make of, and turned to go down the hall. When he disappeared around the corner, your view of Steve was once again unimpeded, and what you saw in his expression nearly made you jolt.

He’d abandoned his makeshift bed to watch Bucky’s retreat, something like a glare on his face. Then his focus shifted to you, and his jaw was tight like he was gritting his teeth.

Was Bucky… _interested_ in you? Did Steve already know and…what, didn’t believe you were good enough for his oldest, dearest friend?

The thought hurt more than you cared to admit.

To appease him, you threw out a feeble wave and resolved to deal with it at a time when you were even the least bit mentally prepared. “Night, Steve.”

Looking like he’d somehow been thrown off by your acknowledgement, he went stiff for a moment before relaxing. He waved back. “Night.”

With a strained smile, you ducked back into the room and shut the door.

What in the world had just happened?

**. . .**

Steve scowled to himself as he finished setting up the couch.

Was there was a big joke he was completely oblivious to or was Bucky truly interested in you? If it was the latter, his willingness to bring you inside and bid you goodnight with a kiss to your cheek—Steve bristled at the memory—meant he was serious about his interest. After all he’d been through that chipped away at the man he once was, the fact that he was choosing to open himself up more to you could only mean he had a singular goal, and that goal was you.

The scowl quickly turned into a glower, and the only reason Steve allowed himself to be so free with his emotions was because Sam was still outside with Natasha and he had the living room to himself. You, meanwhile, were tucked away in the guest room, probably replaying Bucky’s goodnight kiss in your head with heart-thumping adoration.

Steve had the sudden urge to pummel something. He wasn’t a jealous or violent man by nature, but it seemed you brought out the beast in him.

After changing, he settled in and tried to watch TV, but his mind was far away. A little before midnight, Sam and Natasha came in only to go back out.

“What’s going on?” Steve asked.

“We’re sleeping outside, so looks like you got the living room to yourself tonight,” said Sam, a bundle of blankets in his arms. “We’re forcing Bucky to share his tent with us. Have you seen that thing? That junk could probably fit twenty people, easy.”

“You do realize it’s thirty-five degrees,” said Steve.

“Hey, I’ve done a lot worse.” Sam shrugged.

“Let’s just say Barnes can be extremely…persuasive when he wants to be,” said Natasha.

Steve’s brow dipped low in confusion.

“It’ll be like a camping trip from when we were kids,” Sam said. “Except, you know, there’s an ex-assassin super soldier with a killer metal arm sleeping right next to us. But the way I see it, at least he’s on our side, right? We all know who’ll come out the victor in case any unexpected surprises pop up in the middle of the night trying to kill us.”

Natasha rolled her eyes and nudged Sam out the door. “Goodnight, Steve.”

With that, they were gone.

Steve shook his head. These were the people he chose to call his family.

He quickly realized it was no use trying to distract himself with television. Turning off the TV, he shut his eyes and leaned back against the cushions, desperately wishing he had any sort of right to walk down the hall and climb into bed next to you. To hold you in his arms and kiss you ’til you were dizzy. To shelter you, make you feel loved, and finally know what it felt like to have your body underneath his.

His skin brimmed with tension. It would do him no good to sit around doing nothing, and he was in no mood to sleep.

As though moved to action by some unseen force, he abruptly leaned over to dig through his bag by the foot of the couch. When he had what he needed, he rose and headed straight for the study.

**. . .**

Sleep just wouldn’t come.

You tossed and turned, tried to preoccupy yourself with other activities, but nothing proved sufficiently distracting.

After Natasha had come in briefly to tell you she would be sleeping outside and gathered her things, you frowned slightly and asked why. She replied with, “It’s that time of year again for Christmas miracles, and trust me when I say a miracle here’s what’s been a long time coming.”

Right.

You didn’t even bother asking for clarification. You just let her enigmatic speech float away and settled in once she was gone.

You thought about Steve, only a meager distance away. Safe in the privacy of your thoughts, you let yourself imagine what it’d be like for him to share your bed as though he did it every night. You’d be comforted by his presence, safe and secure and soothed by his reassuring warmth. With your other senses heightened in the dark, your body would be even more responsive to his hard, masculine body. You’d be pulled in like a magnet to the sheer strength in him, both the kind that left a physical mark and the kind that seemed to shine innately from his very being. You’d make love, and he’d be rough when you ached for it, and gentle when you yearned for it.

In the dark, you reached out to the other side of the bed, shutting your eyes at the keen ache of your hand meeting nothing but the cold bedsheet and wishing with all you had that Steve could fill the empty space.

After a long moment of stillness, you rose steadily but absently from bed, feeling like you’d just woken from a surreal dream, and turned on the lamp to rifle through your bag across the room. When you had what you needed, you rose and headed straight for the study.


	4. Chapter 4

It was quiet save for the comforting white noise of the home’s heating system as he drew leisurely from his spot at the armchair.

He’d been lost in his own world for a while, having found ease in the serenity that always came over him when he translated his thoughts to paper. Even if he hadn’t had the serum to enhance his faculties, he thought he still would’ve been able to draw his current subject from memory.

He was surrounded by bookshelves upon bookshelves, and it reminded him of you and how you often wrote in that journal of yours. He found himself smiling at the thought even as his pencil never let up.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there when the door to the study suddenly opened and you appeared in the doorway, clutching a quilt and your journal on top of it.

“Steve,” you said, looking just as surprised to find him there as he was you.

He immediately shifted in his seat, unconsciously angling his sketchpad toward him even though you were clear across the room. He said your name in similar surprise and said, “What are you doing here?”

Your mouth formed around words that didn’t come and your flickering gaze couldn’t seem to land on any one object before you said, “I didn’t see you on the couch when I came in, but I thought it was just ’cause it was dark. I was—I was just coming in here to…well, you know.” You glanced down at your journal as though that was evidence enough. “I, um, I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d hole myself up in here for a bit. But clearly you had the same idea, so if you want, I’ll just go—”

“No, wait,” he said, stopping you before you could leave. “There’s room enough for both of us. Why don’t you come in? Keep me company.”

You wavered at your spot in the doorway. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I could use the company.”

“Well, um…I don’t know…” You were hesitant, nervous. It garnered his curiosity.

“Something the matter?” he asked.

“No,” you said, clearly lying. “Just…maybe I’ll just head back to bed. Goodnight.” Again, you moved to shut the door and again, he stopped you.

“You’re starting to hurt my feelings, you know. You’re making me feel like there’s something wrong with me. What is it? Do I smell?”

“I—no, it’s not you, Steve. I’m just being stupid. Sorry.”

“If you’re that sorry, make it up to me. Get in here, and don’t forget to close the door behind you.”

After more hesitation, you grudgingly accepted your defeat and tentatively stepped in, softly closing the door shut behind you. You padded across the warm and cozy study bathed in intimate lighting and took a seat in the matching high-backed armchair across from Steve, angled toward him diagonally and close enough that only a small end table would fit between your chairs. You pulled your feet up so you could curl up in the seat and laid the quilt over your lap before smoothing the journal out on top. Steve watched the entire time without saying a word.

“What?” you said. “Just doing what you asked me.”

He huffed out a small laugh and readjusted himself in his seat before redirecting his attention to his sketchbook.

**. . .**

A comfortable silence fell over the room as the two of you engrossed yourselves in your respective work. The conjoined sound of pencil and pen hitting paper was calming to your senses, made even more so by the fact that it was the person across from you who was the one doing it.

You couldn’t help but sneak glances at him every so often. He was so handsome it sometimes hurt just to look at him. His hand moved over the paper with featherlight strokes and your curiosity burned away at you.

“Whatcha drawing?” you asked.

He startled slightly then, swiftly blinking up at you as though broken from his trance. “Well, wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Why, yes, I would, and that is precisely why I asked.”

He flickered his gaze down at the page that was still hidden from your view, a wistful smile gracing his lips, softening his features and making you fall for him all over again. “It’s something I find myself thinking about far too often…something that reminds me every now and then that everything might be okay.”

“So it’s the same thing? Every time you draw, I mean.”

He dipped his head slowly as an affirmative.

“Sounds pretty important,” you said.

“It is.” Something in his expression struck you as almost sad, like he was resigned.

“Is it a place?” you asked.

“A place?” He shook his head. “No.”

“An object?”

“I guess it depends on how you define ‘object.’”

“Is it a person?”

“Why so curious all of a sudden?”

“Hey, you asked what I always write about.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “All right, I guess I’ll give you that. But you didn’t answer my question, either, so I’m only giving as good as I got.”

“All right, fine,” you unwillingly yielded and that was the end of that.

It was quiet again as you both returned to your separate tasks, though it seemed to take Steve more time than you did. At first, he just tapped his pencil silently back and forth, looking thoughtful like he was deciding his next step in the sketch before finally resuming the gentle strokes of his pencil.

You chatted here and there, and when you finally ran out of thoughts to put down, you feigned writing, if only to have an excuse to stay. You were more tired than you’d originally believed, however, and it wasn’t long until your lids were drooping heavily and you melted back into the cushions, the soothing, steady sounds of heat coming through the vents and Steve’s scratches on paper carrying you into a calm and peaceful slumber.

You had no idea how long you’d been out when you came to. You only knew that Steve was still there, and you knew this from the very distinct, very masculine torso you came face to face with upon waking. He was adjusting your blanket so it covered your entire front. He’d also moved your journal to the wedge between the chair’s arm and your leg so it wouldn’t fall. You looked up to find him smiling tenderly down at you, his pupils blown in the low lighting.

“Your blanket slipped,” he said.

“Oh. Thanks.” Your voice came out soft and sleepy. It took a moment for your brain to catch up and register his close proximity. He didn’t even look real standing above you like that. It seemed impossible that he wasn’t actually a figment of your imagination, a pipe dream meant to tease and taunt you for wanting something you could never have. You hugged the blanket closer to your chest and looked to where he’d sat. “Were you about to leave?”

“No, I was about to settle in.”

“What do you mean?” You looked again to his chair and saw his sketchbook set aside on the table.

“I was just about to settle in for the night when you woke up.”

“You mean you were going to sleep in here?”

“Why not?”

“’Cause you have the whole living room to do that. Don’t get me wrong, these chairs are ridiculously comfy, but I can’t imagine you’d be comfortable curled up in one all night.”

“You were going to sleep here, weren’t you?”

“No,” you said, yawning and stretching out your legs. Your blanket-clad foot accidentally nudged his shin. “I fell asleep here, but I was always planning on heading back to my room. Wait—were you going to sleep in here ’cause you thought I was?”

He shrugged, and it came off a touch too casual to you. “Sure,” he said sarcastically. “Like I said, the chair’ll do just fine, and I saw no reason not to sleep in here.”

“But you didn’t say that.”

“What?”

“You said ‘like I said.’ But you never said what you said to begin with.”

“You know what, smart-ass?” was his response. You laughed.

“Relax.” You nudged him above the knee, this time on purpose. “You’re so easy to mess with.”

He backed out of your reach and snatched your foot in his hand before it could get him again. “Yeah, look who’s talking.” He clasped your foot so it was level with his torso, which meant your leg was angled up higher than your waist.

“What are you doing, stretching me? Weirdo.” You playfully kicked out of his grasp.

“Yeah, you seemed a little tight around the hamstrings,” he replied dryly.

“All right, well, I’m heading off to bed. Night night,” you announced unceremoniously, already getting up and stretching. You were secretly warmed by the thought that he was willing to stay in the room as long as you were there, or so he’d implied, but the pragmatic side of you thought it best to cut things off before you lost too much of your head around him. You readjusted the blanket so it curled around your back and reached for your journal. “You still camping out in here?”

It wasn’t until you turned to face him that you realized how close to you he stood. Your heart gave a sudden lurch, and you had the entirely foolish notion that he’d somehow heard it.

“No,” he said. “I guess not.”

After fetching his sketchbook, he followed you out the door where you both paused, unsure what to do.

“So…” you said. “See you in the morning, I guess.”

He was cast in shadow from the darkness, but you were able to make out half of his face in the slivers of moonlight gleaming through the curtains. Then the insane, sudden thought occurred to you that he could so easily kiss you right then and there, or you him. All it would take was a crane of the neck, a simple blink-and-miss-it peck on the lips.

Ugh. You really had to get it together.

“In the morning,” he echoed. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

“You forgot to say ‘sleep tight’ first.”

“Are you aware of how much of a pain you can be sometimes?”

You giggled, struggling not to miss a beat when the warmth of his large hand came down on your lower back.

“Go on,” he said, pushing you through the dark hallway, “before I decide to dip your hand in warm water while you’re asleep or something.”

“What are you, twelve?” You swiveled to face him mid-stride even though you were only able to make out his outline.

“Yes. Goodnight.”

“Sleep tight.” You grinned at him through the dark and kept walking. When no response came, you said, “This is the part where you say the thing now.”

“Will you get in there already?”

You finally got to your door, and when you glanced at him again, the moonlight caught him just right as he turned for the other direction and you were able to make out the shake of his head and soft upward tilt of his mouth.


End file.
